


A fool's gambit

by Blizza



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mentioned Galen Erso/Orson Krennic, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sassy Krennic, Serving you more Tarkrennic, Tarkin is done with Krennics shit, a lot of bickering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28914186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blizza/pseuds/Blizza
Summary: Orson Krennic had worked hard to get were he wanted to be and success was closer than ever before...if it weren't for the unintended circumstance that Wilhuff Tarkin hated him.Failure was not an option, of course, but attempting to outsmart a man like Tarkin proved to be a rather difficult game to play. Not that Krennic wasn't up for a good challenge.Tarkin on the other hand knew how to play his cards.
Relationships: Orson Krennic/Wilhuff Tarkin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Budgeting concerns

There were a whole lot of things a man like Tarkin could do in his scarce free time after work. He hadn’t read a book in what seemed like ages, duty calling every time he’d try and relax. Next to reading, Wilhuff Tarkin found joy in smaller, less commendable activities. Smoking a cigar while staring into the vastness of space for hours, imagining how it would feel to finally _own_ all of it. There was no doubt in his mind that the Empire would prevail in the end, of course, but even the smallest resistance felt like a thorn in his side. An insult, really.

Tarkin would’ve loved to indulge his vice and light that cigar he stored in a drawer of his hardwood desk, however there were more important matters on his mind.

Mainly Orson Krennic.

Few men managed to make themselves hated by Governor Tarkin in only one meeting, yet Krennic was one of them. From the moment he first laid eyes on him, proudly standing in his office with that ridiculous cape on his shoulders and those even more insane plans for a planet destroying superweapon in his arms, Tarkin knew he would despise him. And so, he did. With his Death Star approved Krennic quickly made a name for himself, for better or worse, getting more obnoxious and self-assured with every month that went by. Indeed, a project as megalomaniac as the Death Star spread rumors and Krennic loved to bathe in every bit of attention it brought him. Attention that gave the Director an impression of being wholly untouchable.

In the end, Orson Krennic, as every other man of the Empire, learned that he had to report to Tarkin. As of now, Krennic was about three minutes and forty-three seconds late. Impatience and anger were a strong mixture, Tarkin thought to himself, as he watched the seconds tick by. Nobody dared to be late to a personal meeting with the Governor himself. Nobody, but a fool like Krennic.

It took the Director around five minutes to finally arrive, the doors betraying his entrance with a well-known hiss. Heavy footsteps followed, a bit too fast to be calm ones, Tarkin noted with the slightest hint of a smile, accompanied by a faint, yet persistent rustle of fabric. _That damned cape_.

When his visitor came into view, he looked positively mussed up. There was a sneer on his face that would make even the bravest protégé avoid him at all cost, his silver hair was disheveled, his cheeks red with anger and maybe a hint of something else and his uniform looked hastily thrown on at best.

“Governor”, Krennic greeted with as much underlying contempt as his position allowed. “Sir”, he added, when Tarkin only stared at him in cold silence.

“Have a seat”, was all he answered, as he leaned back in his wing chair – one small luxury he allowed himself to own. Krennic eyed Tarkin, then the sparce chair he was offered and opted to just stand in place like he didn’t even hear him.

This was a game two could play.

“What’s this about?”, he asked cautiously, ice-blue eyes darting around the room not unlike those of a trapped animal awaiting its impending doom. Once more, Tarkin gestured to the chair in front of him. For what it was worth, Krennic at least wasn’t dumb enough to disobey a second time.

He took the cape off with one quick movement, slim fingers making short work of the unseen buttons holding it in place. Without it, the Director looked smaller, less menacing even. No wonder he chose to wear it everywhere he went. “You look awful”, Tarkin retorted in a removed tone, completely ignoring both Krennic question and the way he bit his lower lip in an attempt to hide his anger. “This is really no state to be in when reporting to your superior. Also, you reek.”

Obviously, it was an overstatement. A rather faint smell of alcohol clung to the Director, nothing most people would even notice and certainly nothing Tarkin could disallow a man to do in his free time. Professionalism between them was just like a relic of the past, forgotten somewhere in a deep cave, never to be found again. Tarkin had tried, naturally, but some individuals just didn’t deserve his good graces. He could be petty, cruel as a matter of fact. However, getting him to abandon his façade wasn’t a simple task. Needless to say, Krennic has always been up for the challenge.

“I had a glass of wine. I wanted to go to sleep. Its 2 am, _normal_ people sleep at 2 am”, Krennic hissed with a deepening frown. “I can’t read your mind, y’know? And the last thing I do at fucking _2 am_ is sit around my quarters and think ‘better be pretty when Tarkin calls me in’. You’re insane.”

His passionate rant got him nothing more than a slightly raised eyebrow form Tarkin. This was the moment he should step in, he contemplated. There was no good reason to let himself be talked to like that. He thought about standing up, rounding his table and slapping Krennic in the face with all the force he could muster. The sound of it would be _delightful_ , leather gloves on naked skin. But what made his blood rush in the end was imagining the sound _Krennic_ would make. Maybe a scream, maybe a grunt, maybe just a tiny huff, it didn’t matter much in his head. It could be anything really, because anything would be enough to make Tarkin lose himself. He was walking a fine line between self-restraint and grabbing Krennic by the throat with both hands to finally make him shut his mouth.

“And you’re drunk”, was all he said in the end. Under the table, hidden from plain view, he drove his fingers deep into the flesh of his right thigh to make his mind stop wandering and his body stop betraying him.

“Get over yourself”, the Director said, lips curling into taunting smirk. “Get over yourself, Sir”, he corrected.

He tightened the grip around his thigh.

“You are over budget”, Tarkin finally revealed the true reason for calling Krennic into his office at the dead of night. Or at least part of the reason. He slid his Datapad showing numerous calculations and statistics over the table with one fluid motion. Krennic caught it on the other side, clever eyes quickly flying over the rather complex budgeting spreadsheets. Krennic was done far too fast, his sly smile only deepening.

“Am I correct in the assumption that you called me into your office at 2 am to look over _budgeting concerns_?”

“Yes”, Tarkin answered, voice clipped.

“You sure you’re not compensating? I get lonely sometimes, but I normally have other ways to kill time”, his opposite laughed. Tarkin shifted in his chair and Krennic all but beamed with a false sense of victory. He’d prove him wrong, that damn bastard.

“Thin ice, Director. You may remember that I, as much as you dislike the fact, am in charge of you and your frivolous presence, which includes the Death Star project, as well as your…person. I’m not approving this”, he was the one nearly smiling now, “unless you give me a _really_ good reason to do so. A specialized weapons Director without a weapon to build doesn’t sound all to useful to me.”

“You approved the plans before”, Krennic answered while adjusting his uniform collar in the hopes to relieve the tension that filled the room like heavy fog. At the same time, he bit his lip again, a nervous habit most likely, yet his desperation and the hint of fear in his face made that miniscule gesture seem nearly sensual to Tarkin. “It can destroy planets. Y’know that. These are the same plans, just-“

“I approved Ersos plans. Not yours.”

His words were akin to striking a match in a room filled to the brim with gasoline. Were there was a hint of disdain before, there was full blown hatred now. Bringing feelings into the equation was punching below the belt on Tarkin’s part for sure, but he just couldn’t be bothered anymore to show even a sliver of respect towards this man. What Galen Erso had been for Orson Krennic was as much of an open secret as the fact that there was a growing resistance against the Empire. When Erso disappeared, Krennic was left a changed man. Whatever fervor lay between them Krennic diverted to his insane passion project, probably hoping to make a statement not only to every enemy of the Empire, but also his runaway lover.

“You want me to beg?”, came after a short break full of loaded silence.

“That would be a start”, Tarkin mused.

“Well, tell me how then”, Krennic snapped, balling his hand into fists and relaxing them again in rhythm to his shallow breathing.

“Normally, you’d be on your knees. Maybe that would make you shut up for once.” Tarkin had gotten carried away in imagining exactly that scenario in his head. He hadn’t intended to actually tell Krennic, seeing nothing but a sign of weakness, no, an unwanted confession in his own words. _He’d look better on his knees_ , was the thought that ultimately broke something in Wilhuff Tarkin. Krennic’s cheeks going from red to a rather pretty pink didn’t help much. That minx knew without a doubt, what he’d achieved. A crack in the mask, an opening to his unbreakable front, an end to his never-ending patience and control over himself and everyone around him.

“Oh”, Krennic sighed full of mocking lasciviousness, “so that’s how the famed Governor Tarkin handles his business? I’ll give you as much, I’m quite surprised. Wouldn’t have thought you could get it up anymore.”

In a split second, Tarkin launched at him. His gloved hand closed hard around Krennic’s jaw and he yanked the other man off his chair with brute force. Krennic stumbled, but caught himself with his hands on Tarkin’s desk in the last moment accompanied by an undignified sound coming from deep within. Then, he stayed. It could’ve been the shock of the moment, would Krennic have opted to pull out of Tarkin’s grip around his face as soon as he could, but he didn’t. Tarkin knew he was stronger than he looked – years of military training didn’t just fade away with age – however he, without question, would not be able to hold Krennic in place with just one hand if he didn’t _want_ to be overpowered. This is how they stayed, Tarkin leaning slightly over his desk, fingers pressing harshly into his seemingly willing victims’ cheeks, who in turn had planted both his hand on the hardwood and pushed his belly into the rough edge of the table. It couldn’t be comfortable.

“You’re over budget. Fix it”, Tarkin whispered and for the first time, allowed himself a malicious little grin. He ran slow, firm circles over Krennic’s cheek with his thump, entranced by how the soft flesh followed his motions. The Director pressed his eyes shut and took a deep breath before clasping one hand around Tarkin’s wrist, trying to shove him off. He didn’t budge one bit, only holding on tighter. All concerns off giving in to his desire were drowned by the fact of how utterly _right_ this felt.

“Get off me”, Krennic moaned.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He couldn’t tell what kept him in place like a child getting reprimanded by his father.

Krennic pushed once more, but there was no conviction behind it. He felt trapped, not by the hand on his chin, not by the desk pressing into his gut, but because of the way Tarkin looked at him. He was back to his piercing stare by now, seemingly unbothered by the position they were in, but there had been something else. For just one small moment Tarkin had looked as feral as Rancor catching his elusive prey. That glimpse of a different man burned itself into his conscience and went straight to his core. He had made Wilhuff fucking Tarkin angry enough to lose himself.

All of his thoughts went blank when the hand on his chin shifted into his hair, curling around some strands of silver hair and without even the hint of a warning pushed his head down hard. He bit his lip again then out of pure reflex and cursed himself for doing so when his head hit the table. His teeth dug into his gums, the distinctly familiar, iron taste of blood quickly filling his mouth. Tarkin had actually smacked his face on the table.

Pulling free, he stumbled a few steps backward, blood warm on his lower lip. Tarkin on the other hand seemed perfectly content, sinking down in his wing chair and beginning to read those budgeting spreadsheets for a second time as if nothing had happened.

“You don’t happen to have a lighter on you, Orson?”, he inquired while fumbling with a drawer on the side of his table.

He lost, again. There was no outplaying Tarkin, no clever trick he could pull, no strategy advanced enough to surprise this man. With the back of his hand, he wiped the blood away, eyes glued on the cigar the Governor had pulled out of the drawer. What was there to say? Screaming at the bastard was not an option, neither was admitting that having his hair pulled by him send shivers down his spine and feeling entirely defenseless at the mercy of a more powerful man made his blood boil. Krennic knew how messed up he must be looking. His face was burning with shame and anger and even worse – he somehow was half-hard. _There is nothing you can say, he won,_ he thought to himself with a quivering breath. How did Tarkin of all people manage to downright make his brain stop functioning properly?

The cigar was already lit when Krennic came back to himself. “Anything else?”, Tarkin asked with a hint of annoyance, lazily blowing smoke into the air with his Datapad in hand.

“No”, he growled, admitting defeat nearly as fast as he accepted the challenge.

“Have your solution ready by tomorrow then. And make it a good one, because I have a list of many men more capable and, by all means, less irritating than you to do your job. Probably also better, at that.”

Both of them knew it was nothing more than a lie, the final blow to Krennic’s already hurt ego, still he kept his mouth shut. Going against Tarkin without a battle plan was nothing short of a suicide mission and Krennic knew when it was time to retreat. He might be a proud man, but he wasn’t a foolish one. “Yes’sir”, he offered standing in a sloppy parade rest, bending forward to get a hold of his cape.

“Leave that here”, Tarkin barked and Krennic froze on spot. “So I know you’ll come back. Call it a hostage.”

“I have more than one.” Tarkin blew a cloud of smoke in his face and he left coughing because of the unpleasant, spicy taste filling his lungs. At least Tarkin’s taste in cigars reflected his personality all too well. Leaving the Governors quarters after 2 am sporting a bloody lip, a half opened uniform collar and no iconic cape was enough to make even the most stoic trooper on nightguard double-check. Krennic made a mental note to get rid of that one, even if he had to do it himself. The last thing he need were rumors of him getting all hot and bloody with that old bastard.

Not that any of that would’ve been much of a rumor, really.

Managing to make it to his personal quarters unseen, he decided to give his door a good punch with his clothed fist. Imagining Tarkin’s smug face in its place made the stinging pain worth it, if only for a few seconds before he hated himself for doing it. Shaking his hand with hateful fervor, he barged into his bathroom. The mirror revealed all his suspicions as true – he looked fucked up. His whole chin was bloody, his face turned an ugly shade of blue were Tarkin had gripped him and his hair stood off in every single direction. With another deep breath, he spat a mouthful of blood into his sink. This wouldn’t have happened if Galen hadn’t left him. If Galen wasn’t an unfaithful coward, a traitor and, right after Tarkin, the biggest asshole in all of the galaxy. The Death Star was their love child, the result of two genius minds, not one. Krennic couldn’t do it alone.

But he had to.

Would any other man have been his superior, no problem would’ve ever arisen. Every single one of them knew that Krennic’s project was a work of art, a bitter end to all rebellion against the Empire. But Tarkin _hated_ him. He always had, for some reason. Krennic wrote it of a jealousy at first, Tarkin just being mad that the spotlight was taken from him for just a second. He had been wrong, of course, because it was deeply _personal_. It filled him with a strange sense of pride to be important enough, or better enough of a pain in the ass, to make Tarkin lose his shit over him, however that didn’t fix his financing problem in the slightest.

“Fuck it”, he told himself while watching his blood-filled spit run down the drain. Tarkin wanted him on his knees, he’d get him on his knees. Krennic had been there plenty for Galen Erso, he could handle Tarkin well enough. What difference did it make? He wouldn’t even have to look him in the eyes, just blow him once, get his finances approved and never think of it again. It wasn’t like Tarkin would tell anyone. The thought proved as a rather thrilling one, actually, Tarkin at his mercy for once, indulging him in some dirty fantasy that scumbag clearly didn’t want to have. Orson Krennic had a habit of coming out on top, one way or another and this time just proved to be rather unconventional.

He jerked off in the shower thinking off the distant pain of having Tarkin’s fingers dig into his cheek. Feeling rather awful afterwards – why would he ever het off on _that_ \- he cracked open another bottle of wine and emptied it in record time. Whatever he tried, he just couldn’t get his mind off the fact that he didn’t just shove Tarkin off, or punch him, or just leave really. All he did was stay in place like a trained dog, letting the older man have his way without putting up much of a fight. Krennic let Tarkin hit his damn head against a table, for crying out loud! There was never a doubt in his mind that _something_ was wrong with him, however the extent of it made him scared of his own body. _Just blow him once_ , he kept telling himself. It didn’t work.

When he thought about what would happen, or more about what could happen, an intoxicating mixture of dread and utter excitement washed over him. Nothing like what he felt when he was with Galen – that was different. It wasn’t a warm and giddy feeling like back then, but a powerful one in its own right.

He fell asleep in the end, alcohol and fatigue making his mind go blank. He’d show Wilhuff Tarkin that he had messed with the wrong man once and for all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yey me I'm living in the dumpster now. Enjoy 4k words of pure smut

Reevaluating dozens of budgeting spreadsheets was really grinding his gears. Krennic hadn’t slept particularly well after his nightly encounter with Tarkin and it didn’t matter how much he tried to crunch the numbers, find any mistakes, there was nothing turning up. Galen’s calculations had been as perfect as every other single thing he did, the ones that weren’t turning out were all Krennic’s own doing. To put it simple – he fucked up.

If Tarkin had given him more time he could’ve had a professional look over it - at least if he was on the Death Star itself, but Tarkin had to live in a Sentinel Base located who-knows-where. He dreaded every single time he had to come here and report his advancements on the Death Star. This time marked a new low.

With a half-heartedly furious scream he tossed his Datapad from his empty desk onto the ugly, green couch on the other side of the living room. It didn’t break, he noted with a mix of relief and disappointment. Turning up to Tarkin empty-handed was like jumping head-first into hyperspace. Krennic could just leave. It wasn’t like Tarkin could do much to stop him. They’d be dancing around each other for a while, unsure of how to handle Krennic’s open disobedience, until Tarkin had enough and actually put a blaster shot through Krennic’s brain. “He would do that”, Krennic told himself while staring holes into the blank walls of his temporary chambers.

There was no turning back now.

The hours nearing his impending doom went by far too slowly. He had long given up on the calculations, his mind focused on the single other tactic that could save his ass at this moment. Blow Tarkin so well that his brain short-circuited and he gave Krennic all the credits he could ever wish for. Admittedly, it sounded more like a plan some carefree whore and less like one the specialized weapons Director would come up with, but he was determined to work within his boundaries. And those just happened to include rather dubious sexual coercion. Not like he minded it all too much, he reckoned while circling his thumb over the nasty blue spot on his face, mimicking the way Tarkin had done so the night before. His body definitely seemed to take an unwanted interest in the prospect of having the Governor manhandle him again. Not even himself he could trust.

At least he knew that he had done _something_ right last night, otherwise he would never have elicited such an unhinged reaction from the normally so collected Governor. Following the same steps as yesterday wasn’t a solution though, with Krennic not actually knowing what the driving factor for Tarkin's outburst had been. Had it been the fact he drank or rather his appearance? Granted, he didn’t give much of a shit while dressing for Tarkin in the middle of the night, yet now he wished he could at a minimum partially remember how he looked. Ultimately it made no difference, as Krennic decided the best course of action was to just put his uniform on, comb his hair and forfeit wearing another cape – ignoring the undying urge to put another one on out of pure spite. He hoped for Tarkin's sake that the cape Krennic left with him was in pristine condition still.

When the digital watch on his desk showed 22:00, his heart was already racing. Tarkin wanted him to be there in only ten minutes, he merely took two to get there. Fidgeting nervously with his Datapad, he waited outside Tarkins office. Whoever the trooper on guard this night was, they were smart enough to not turn their heads.

Krennic couldn’t tell if he’d stood there for seven minutes or three hours when the doors finally opened. With quick, precise steps he got inside, blocking out how the doors behind him locked themselves with a promising _beep_. Tarkin’s office was as cold as the man occupying it, chilly temperature sending goosebumps down his back. Only that traitorous little fire burning inside him kept him from turning around and booking it out once and for all. Orson Krennic could not fail _here_ of all places.

“Leave them on my table, will you?”, Tarkins unmistakable voice ordered him before he could properly step in line of sight. The old man just sat there, brows furrowed in a strained way, gaze lowered onto some unknown project lying on the table before him. Just leave them there? Krennic tugged his Datapad with the unfinished calculations out from under his arm and put them on the edge of the desk as silently as he was able to.

“Thank you. I’ll look over them and will let you know by next week.”

“They… they aren’t finished”, Krennic croaked, positively failing to hide the confusion and that hint of disappointment in his voice. Tarkins head snapped up instantaneously, locking eyes with Krennic who felt like a child letting down his parents again.

“I told you to finish them, didn’t I?”, Tarkin asked him slowly, crooking one eyebrow in an investigative manner. Krennic knew he was getting talked down to again. Only this time, he had no clever comeback ready. Tarkin had been very clear in his implications last night and Krennic had bruises and lucid memories to prove it.

“I thought we were going to go about this…differently.”

“And what, pray tell, were you having in mind, Orson? Because I distinctly remember asking you to fix your budgeting problem.” Tarkin was playing for control. He wanted Krennic to give in, to get on his knees, to be the desperate one. Every sense of victory he had felt faded, leaving him with a bunch of useless spreadsheets and no plan of attack. Krennic opened his mouth, words failing him. “Yes?”, Tarkin probed, attention seemingly back to whatever he was working on before.

“You wanted me to suck your cock”, Krennic shot back bluntly.

Tarkin stopped dead in his tracks to look at Krennic again, who nearly couldn’t bear the mixture of excitement and pure shame that piercing glance filled him with. “I wasn’t aware I told you such a thing”, he hummed, “is that how you usually handle financing problems? I might have to look into that.”

“Oh, fuck off”, Krennic retorted with burning red cheeks, “you told me to get on my knees. Don’t play games with me here. I’ll suck you off and you greenlight my funding, that’s the deal.”

“I’ll consider it”, Tarkin replied, mocking and full of himself as he was. Krennic ripped his Datapad off the table, a wave of embarrassment and ire making his head spin. He couldn’t believe this bastard. All his endless worries and countless lewd fantasies about how this would go just brushed off without batting an eye. “Well, you better get to it then. I can hardly decide if your offer is worth it from imagination alone”, the Governor added nonchalantly and Krennic could swear he felt his heart stop beating for a moment. His mind went from one extreme – being turned down and sent away – to the other: Actually blowing _Tarkin_.

Krennic forced himself to shuffle in Tarkins general direction, falling down onto his knees unceremoniously when Tarkin pushed his chair back far enough to leave some space between him and his table. Somehow, he felt lass awkward staring at the Governors crotch instead of his ever-wary face. This was something Krennic was used to, hell, even good at. Down here there was no reason to be nervous anymore, he’d just close his eyes and let his body dictate over his mind.

Well, he thought so until Tarkin grabbed the hand Krennic intended to open the his with. Out of reflex his gaze shot up and once more Orson Krennic was reminded between whose legs he was sitting. Tarkin was leaning back in his chair, lips curled into a slight smile of amusement. Other than that, the whole surreal situation didn’t seem to affect his overall demeanor all too much. What Krennic would give in this moment to make him brash and angry again.

“There are rules to this”, Tarkin finally explained his stoppage.

“Of course you’d have a rulebook to a damn blowjob. What’s next, a briefing on how to proceed?”

“Precisely.” Tarkin ushered Krennics hand away, opting to open his belt himself instead. “Turn around”, he ordered like this was just his usual work and not Director Krennic on his knees in front of him.

“Why would I…you’re not going to slap me with that!”, Krennic gasped in a moment of horrified enlightenment, eyes glued to the belt.

“If you don’t want me to”, Tarkin said matter-of-factly while getting a hold of Krennic's collar and, with one powerful jerk, just turning him around. Despite being stunned by the surprise of how hands-down and uncaring Tarkin’s approach was, Krennic caught himself before actually falling on the floor face-first. He couldn’t believe how fucking _fitting_ it felt that Tarkin just took what he wanted. “Hands behind your back.”

Krennic just did it. His mind went completely blank when he felt Tarkin bend down to grab both his wrists and tie his belt around them. Tightly. The now bound Director gave himself one genuine try to free his hands…and failed miserably. Tarkin truly just handcuffed him and all he could think about was how oppressively hot he felt. Krennic’s whole body jerked when Tarkin pressed his hand hard into his back, following the curve of his spine upwards before slipping it around his neck. How Krennic wished he would just _squeeze._

Instead, Tarkin's fingers closed around his jaw not unlike they did the night before, finding that bruise they left and beginning to run firm motions over it again. Krennic couldn’t stop an embarrassing moan escaping him as Tarkin turned his body back to face him.

“Good”, he praised and Krennic's blood started boiling. “You won’t be touching me. Also, you won’t be talking unless I speak to you. If I ask you something, you answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Understood?”

“You’re a maniac”, Krennic shot back without thinking, trying to cling onto his last bit of dignity. His vision went white when Tarkin slapped him straight across the face. His leather gloved hand hitting Krennic’s cheek seemed to echo in the room, followed by dreadful silence. If Krennic hadn’t been hard before, he was now. The audacity this old bastard had and the unwavering confidence that accompanied it, mixed with the tingling sensation of sharp pain went straight to his core. As if nothing had happened, Tarkin sunk back into his chair, getting a hold of Krennic's face once more and turning it to the side to admire the undoubtedly red skin of his cheek.

“I was wondering what that would sound like”, he disclosed, seemingly more than pleased with said sound. “Let’s try again. Do you understand the rules? If yes, do you want to stay? Otherwise, I will release you and we’ll never speak of this again. So, Orson, will you be so kind and start now?”

“Yes’sir”, Krennic breathed, not even bothering anymore with how utterly _excited_ he sounded. There was no going back now, he _wanted_ this. The funding was nothing but an afterthought to his painfully apparent need. Whatever switch Tarkin found, he sure knew how to flip it.

“I trust you won’t be having much trouble even without your hands.” Krennic shot Tarkin an annoyed glance, but otherwise disregarded the little side-stab concerning his abilities. He wasn’t ashamed that he was good at this. Shuffling forwards to his place right between the Governors spread legs, he tried his best to get Tarkins fly open with his teeth. In the end, Tarkin got tired of Krennic’s admittedly clumsy attempts – who even tailored this man’s pants – to free his dick from its prison made of cloth and just did it himself. Being face-to-face with Tarkin’s cock was strange. He was bigger than Krennic imagined, but that wasn’t much of a feat because Krennic _never_ really imagined Tarkin in this way before. He took a moment of pride in the fact that Tarkin was at the very least as hard as himself, giving himself a few languid strokes with his own hand.

“Get to it”, he urged, more annoyed than needy.

Krennic didn’t care, if he was honest with himself. He was far too impatient to play for time or even be a tease, instead closing his lips around the head of Tarkin’s cock and sucking on it _hard_. Tarkin’s breath hitched for just a second under Krennics trained assault, then he sunk back into his chair even further, one of his hands beginning to lazily stroke through Krennic’s hair. Krennic took it as enough silent encouragement to swallow Tarkin down as far as he could be bothered to. There were next to no sounds, just Tarkins steady, but loud breathing and the rustle of Krennic’s clothes, while he was trying his best to get into the most comfortable position at Tarkin’s feet. Out of reflex he tried to pull his hands free to steady himself, but there was no way to get them out of the belt.

Krennic pulled back, putting his tongue to work instead and relishing in the familiar taste of precome for just a moment. Tarkin was near impossible to read from listening alone, but Krennic was determined to not look up again. There was no way he was looking Tarkin in the eyes with his cock in his mouth. Applying surprisingly gentle pressure to the back of Krennic’s head, Tarkin pushed him back down, meeting him with the slightest tilt of his hips. Krennic took him in farther this time, accompanied by a wet, chocked sound when Tarkins dick hit his throat. He definitely did not intend to put _that much_ work in and instantly tried to pull off again.

Evidently, Tarkin had other plans in mind. Every bit of gentleness was gone within a split second, fingers fisting roughly through Krennics hair, keeping his head down without much effort or care. Krennic gagged just a little, before reminding himself to breathe through his nose and bracing himself for Tarkin to have his way with him. His own spit was drooling down his chin at this point and he had to give it his all to focus and swallow Tarkin down to the hilt.

His success was met with a faint “yes, good” from Tarkin that sent chills up his spine. God, he loved to be praised by this man. Tarkin finally gave in and let him pull back to breathe, then he just held Krennic’s head in place and snapped his hips up. Again. And again. Krennic moaned around his cock, unbearably turned on by the fact that Tarkin just went ahead and _used_ him.

Urgently needing some friction, something to please himself, something to make up for the fact that he couldn’t even touch himself, he gave in and looked up pleadingly. Facing Tarkin like this was intense on a whole new level. His glance was still icy as ever, but there was something primal and lustful mixed in, which Krennic honestly hadn’t expected. Tarkin furrowed his brows in an asking way, causing Krennic to try and articulate his longing. Well, it didn’t end up as much more than a muffled sound when Tarkin thrust into his mouth once again. Tears started dwelling up in the corners of Krennic’s eyes, but he held Tarkins gaze.

At least Tarkin wasn’t a cruel master. One of his legs shifted, nudging Krennics thighs open and then slipping it between them. It was invitation enough for Krennic to start grinding against it in an instant, the sweet pressure against his own hardness making him forget himself in ashamed pleasure for a moment. This was utterly obscene and dirty and insanely fucking _perfect_. With newfound eagerness Krennic bopped his head up and down, matching the frantic rhythm with which he humped Tarkin’s leg like his life depended on it.

He moaned in earnest when he felt Tarkins leg tremble against him and his back arch off the chair just a bit, his grip in Krennic’s hair getting tighter in sync to Krennic's own climax only feeling like it was only one more small step away.

And then that _fucking bastard_ just yanked him off by his hair and tossed him to the floor.

-

Tarkin pulled his leg back, getting himself into an upright position again and attempting to catch his admittedly ragged breath. He’d nearly spilled himself right then and there, watching Krennic between his knees, sucking him with the eagerness of a willing lover, all while grinding against his leg in raw need.

He hadn’t doubted for one moment that Krennic would blow him well enough, – there were enough stories that reached even him – it was how much he was into this what actually surprised him. This wasn’t some great show Krennic was putting on to get his funding, this was totally _real_.

“You fucking asshole I was nearly there!”, Krennic suddenly barked, sweat glistening on his forehead and spit running from his chin down is throat. He looked totally wrecked. Tarkin had to pinch the base of his cock for just a moment, while taking a mental image of Krennic debauched appearance. He wouldn’t forget that one for a while. There was a quick thought wasted on just coming on Krennic’s face, but he forced it aside. His mind was set on something else and he wouldn’t spill himself because of some rather nice imagination.

 _For another time_ , he noted.

“Have I not told you to not speak?”, Tarkin reprimanded, voice thankfully steady and commanding as ever.

“Yes”, Krennic gasped, falling back into unwanted submission instantly. Tarkin reached back, pulling Krennic’s cape down from were he kept it on the backrest of his armchair, tossing it lazily over his desk.

“Bend over the desk”, he ordered without hesitation. Krennic jaw went tense and he pulled on the belt holding his hands in place again.

“That wasn’t part of the deal”, he responded, adding a quick “Sir” because he very well remembered that he shouldn’t be speaking. Tarkin let it slip, because yes, it wasn’t part of the so-called ‘deal’, but he was fairly sure that Krennic humping his leg wasn’t either.

“Bend over the desk and press your thighs together”, Tarkin repeated, standing up from his chair to look down on Krennic from full height. This time, he understood Tarkin’s intentions, seemingly debating with himself if it was worth it. For Tarkin, the decision was already made a long time ago. Seeing Krennic kneel beneath him, thighs flexing as he tried to balance himself without his hands was enough to fill him with various fantasies regarding Krennic’s legs. Somehow, he never noticed that the Director had awfully nice legs.

Eventually, Krennic decided to give in, only edged on by Tarkins hand clutching his collar to drag him onto his feet in one fluid motion. Manhandling Krennic over his desk was rewarded with another wanton moan from the Director, who had given up all resistance and just let himself be bent over.

Tarkin made quick work of Krennic’s pants as well as his underwear, running his fingers along the soft flesh on the inside of the other man’s thighs. He’d enjoy this plenty. Dragging his fingertips further up, he ran some tight circles over Krennic’s ass, marveling at the way he tensed up before totally melting into his touch. Tarkin was sure that he could have done this for hours, just touching and watching how Krennic became more and more undone, but he was nearly painfully hard and even his body’s patience was able to run out after enough waiting. Sliding his hand between Krennic’s shoulders, he pressed him down onto the hardwood desk, his second arm gliding around Krennic’s hips to guide them upwards. Krennic shifted onto the balls of his feet, thighs trembling under the effort.

He ought to get a higher desk.

“Wait! Can you please-“, Krennic whined, turning his face to the side in an attempt to look at Tarkin’s face. “Can you at least untie me? I’m not to keen on banging my head against your table. Again.”

“Do you think you deserve it?” It was a simple inquiry, meant to test the waters. Meant to show how far Krennic would let this go.

“Not cracking my skull open for you? Yes, actually!”, Krennic snapped, impatience, need and rage filling his voice. Tarkin freed his belt in a trained maneuver, drawing it back quickly to spank Krennic’s backside with it just once. It was an ear-piercing slap, accentuated by the chocked-off moan its receiver made. “Fuck”, was all Krennic had to say now, placing his arms on the table and burying his face in them. Tarkin would have to work on his constant talking, but he could’ve guessed that shutting up would be the part that troubled Krennic. Everything else, he determined, the Director did more than well.

With everything finally sorted out, Tarkin omitted pressing Krennic down, instead pulling his black glove off with his teeth. He tossed it aside carelessly, spitting is his hand once to slick himself while stroking himself back to full hardness. He lined himself up with Krennic thighs, sliding between them right under his balls. A low, muffled whine greeted his first shallow thrust, getting more and more indignant with every other one.

Tarkin closed his eyes, letting pleasure take him over, Krennic’s warm body and his oddly sensual moans prompting him to set a faster pace. The feeling was ineffable, an exhilarating interplay of power, lust and a sense of victory. His body was on fire, but the essence of his enjoyment stemmed far more from the sensation off having made Krennic into nothing but a wanton slut for him. It wasn’t his funding keeping him here, it was his willingness to be completely dominated by none other than Tarkin, a man he tried to undermine when any small opportunity arose.

Tarkin decided that he liked Krennic _much_ better when he was moaning beneath him.

Feeling himself coming close to climax, he took Krennic’s length in his hand and jerked him in quick, short succession. It took next to nothing for Krennic to reach his orgasm, his legs shacking dangerously and his voice reduced to a soft sob as he came on his priced cape. Tarkin held his hips up and gave it one, two, three more well-placed thrusts before he followed Krennic over the edge in practiced silence. He would be lying if he denied it being one of the better orgasms he had in his lifetime.

When Tarkin moved away from Krennic to pull his pants up, Krennic just gave up. His legs gave out, prompting him to just lay on his sullied cape, head completely buried between his arms. Where Tarkin was down from his high and back to cold professionalism in an instant, Krennic didn’t even think of moving. Not that it mattered with Tarkin to guide him.

When Krennic finally gathered enough of his dignity to get back up, Tarkin just placed his hand on his neck again and kept him down. He admittedly took quite a bit of pleasure in Krennic’s sweaty, messy presence on his desk. Reaching for Krennic's Datapad of the edge of the table, he flicked it on and positioned it neatly on Krennic’s lower back. There was another moan when the cold metal connected with the Directors bare skin, but he let it happen without complaint.

“You multiplied the fuel costs instead of adding them”, Tarkin sighed with a click of his tongue, watching Krennic tense up at the sound. “Someone ought to teach you how to pay attention, Orson.”

Neither the sultry tone, nor the suggestiveness were lost on Krennic.

“You’ll have your credits by tomorrow. Leave now.”

As Tarkin sat back into his chair with the Datapad in hand, life came back to Orson. Their eyes locked when Krennic started to fix his clothes, pinching his nose in disgust over his dirty cape. “You can wash that”, Tarkin offered sincerely amused.

“I’d rather just burn it at this point”, Krennic answered, voice hoarse and lip bitten bloody once again. “Tell your guard to fuck off from the door or I’ll shoot them.”

“They will enjoy the view”, he replied nonchalantly. It didn’t matter much to him what his guard would think. What anyone would think, really. On the contrary, the thought of everyone knowing how easy it was for him to make Krennic submit to his mercy was fairly appealing. Krennic gave in again – he really way a natural at this – and tried to fix up his hair as best as he could before hastily running for the door.

“Oh, and Orson?”, Tarkin stopped him once more, Krennic turning around in the doorframe to face him one last time, crumpled up cape pressed closely to his body. “You just must give me a personal tour of that Death Star of yours next week.”

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language and this is the first time of me writing in it, as well as my first Fanfiction...So please don't come after me lol
> 
> Also special shoutout to my favourite Tarkrennic trash provider, you know who you are


End file.
